Summer Sanctuary
by rubygoddess
Summary: Sequel to "Fortunate Son", set between an AU S2/3. Both Buffy and Spike have killed their lovers and flee to L.A. in guilt, though unbeknownst to each other. Can they find solace and heal together? Well that's what every Spuffer expects! B/S, please R/R!
1. Anne

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Disclaimer: I do not own any the characters of BtVS, I'm just a fanatic wielding the power of my own imagination and Microsoft Word program. 

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Rating: PG-13 for now, though may be subject to rating change later, not sure. 

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Author's Note: It is recommended that you read "Fortunate Son" before this since there will be many references to the backstory already established, but this short synopsis should bring you up to speed. Spike is Giles' estranged son who arrived to Sunnydale, only to find that his mother's long-lost murderer is none other than Buffy's true love, Angel. After Buffy turns Angel, he proceeds to kill the remainder of Spike's family and friends, including his girlfriend, Drusilla. He then tries to open Acathla (much in the same vein of the latter part of S2) and his portal, but Ms. Calendar re-curses him with his soul before Buffy can find out about it. She sends him to Hell minutes later after his soul returns. Spike is forced to stake Dru. Both are broken and in pain, subsequently leaving Sunnydale for L.A. Any more than that, you'll have to read "Fortunate Son" to clear up any confusion. Also, the first part of this chapter takes dialogue directly from "Anne".

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Feedback: Yes, yes please! Also, I have another story currently going on called "Haven". If you haven't, please be the nicest person ever and check it out! Drop me a line about if you so please! : )

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Chapter 1: Anne

She stood on the beach, her toes curling in the sand. The breeze swirled her golden hair about her shoulders and the light cotton sundress about her tanned legs. Serenity flailed about in the wind and filled her with contentment. She smiled and closed her eyes when she felt the warmth of the sun beat down onto her cheeks. She was safe here, she belonged. She felt loved. 

"That's because you are loved," a male voice assured her as two strong hands settled around her waist. She leaned into his arms and soaked him in. Her hand crept up his cheek and sought the comfort of his dark brown hair. She turned her head round so that she was gazing up into his chocolate eyes. 

"By you?"

He grasped her hand, intertwining their fingers together. "Always."

"How did you find me here?"

"If I was blind, I would see you."

She never wanted this to end. But she knew it was coming. The sun was subsiding and bowing under the glittering opalescent blue of the horizon. "Stay with me?" she murmured, holding him tighter. 

He chuckled softly into her ear. "Forever, Princess. That's the whole point. I'll never leave." His voice suddenly turned forebodingly dark as he whispered, "Not even if you kill me."

She stilled and a shiver ran through her bones. When she turned, she saw him with his chest bloodied and his face singed and burnt. "Bitch!" he yelled and she wanted to scream. 

Instead, she woke up.

She sighed and brushed the sweat from her brow. She turned in her damp sheets and read the clock. 4: 05 AM. On schedule. She was shaking, but that was how she awoke for the past few weeks now. The nightmares were painful and heart-wrenchingly regular. She almost could count on them as her own personal alarm clock. Every morning, she would jolt awake in a feverish perspiration. It seemed appropriate that she should wake up when it was still the dead of night outside. She didn't think she could bear to wake up to light. 

She got up out of bed and wearily got ready for work. 

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Her name was Anne and she worked the graveyard shift at the little diner around the corner. No one really cared what her name was though. She was always addressed as "Hey you" or "Waitress" or "Yo Blondie!" anyway. All the polite customers didn't come to the dinner in the dead, quiet hours of the early morning. The customers who did were old, tired, horny or rude truckers who pinched her cheeks when she didn't ask them to, slapped her ass when she was walking away and waved measly change at her in return for lewd favors. There was a time when she wouldn't have stood for this and would have rewarded the smarmy old men with a fractured rib. But that wasn't who she was anymore. She could never be what she was. 

She was sullen and silent and non-emotive at work and in consequence, never got many tips. She never flashed a smile like the more amiable waitresses and curtly asked for and delivered orders to customers. No one at the diner exactly liked her, but the manager Mitch, took pity on her. She had arrived in L.A. a little less than a month ago and looked lost and broken, despite her best efforts. He had seen the kind before; doe-eyed heart-broken girl who thought L.A. would be the answer to all her problems. Girls like her needed all the help they could get. 

He had given her a job and she was a good worker. She didn't have very good people skills, but she was a hard worker, he could tell. No one knew what she was running from, but she seemed determined to relieve herself from whatever painful past she had as she busied herself everyday around the restaurant. 

Today, she was intensely concentrating on refilling the ketchup bottles when something happened to almost draw her mind away. Another waitress, Sally stared at her in amazement as, for once, she seemed spacey and distracted. 

"Hey! Anne! Earth to Anne!"

She had been staring at someone in the window. He was tall and well built with dark brown hair, donning a long black leather coat. Her heart skipped a beat and she nearly dropped the ladle of ketchup into her lap. It seemed like the whole world had stopped for a moment around her. But she squinted harder and realized it was not the person she thought it was. Turning hollow again, she snapped back to attention. "Huh?"

"I've been calling your name for five minutes," Sally remarked, annoyed. "You have a customer at Table Five."

She veered her head around and saw someone seated near the window, obscured by the large menu he or she was holding. She sighed and handed Sally the ladle. "Thanks."

She was in no mood to handle customers. Well . . . she _never_ was in the mood to handle customers, but especially today. One passing resemblance and her whole day was destined to be spent in brooding and dark introspection. So she gruffly approached the table and stood in front of the customer impatiently. 

"What would you like?"

The menu still hung in the air, hiding the customer from her view. It didn't matter though. She rarely looked at whomever she was serving. 

"Mmmm . . . what could I possibly get for . . . 79 cents?"

She rolled her eyes and slumped restlessly. "79 cents?"

"Well a gent's gotta be economical, doesn't he?"

If she wasn't in such a bad mood or in a hurry to be somewhere else, she would have recognized the brusquely British voice from behind the laminated menu. She just tapped her finger on her apron and huffed. "Ummm . . . 79 cents, let's see . . . you could get . . . yesterday's old bread crusts . . . apple cores . . . rotten Danishes . . . or . . . coffee."

"Uh-huh. And you got any international flavors with that?"

Her eyes began to widen as she detected a familiar low hilt of pitch in the customer's tone. Startled, she suddenly felt the impulse to run. "Uh, uh . . . what?"

"International flavors," he repeated with a hint of rudeness. "You know, like those creamers they've got on the market . . . Bailey's Irish cream perhaps . . ."

"Umm . . . we've got . . . coffee . . . I-I don't know anything more than that . . ."

"Well what _do _you know, you dumb bint?" he launched back sharply, throwing the menu down on the table to face the surly waitress. Surprised, he found no one there. All he could see was a girl with short, cropped blonde hair rapidly speeding away. 

"Sally, you've got to help me!"

Sally looked up from her Cosmo and crackled her gum. Slightly astonished, she eyed Anne suspiciously as she held out her apron imploringly. 

"What is it?"

"That customer, um, at Table Five. Take him for me?"

She glanced back at the bleached-blonde young man stretched out on the booth. "What's wrong with him?" she said distrustfully. 

"Nothing . . . I just don't feel like taking him. I feel really sick, I-I think I need to go home."

Sally still had her eyes fixed on the black-clad, edgy-looking young lad. Beginning to smile, her gum crack in her mouth again. "He's _dishy_," she noted appreciatively. "S'really got that Billy Idol thing going for him. Yum."

"Whatever." Anne thrust the apron into Sally's arm and turned to make a run for it, but it was too late. He had seen her and shot a frustratingly mischievous grin at her. His whole face lit up when he saw her and he looked prepared to torture her. So she groaned and fled quickly to the back door. 

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Dammit. Damn the damn . . . dammit. All she wanted to be was left alone. She didn't want anyone to find her, not her mother or her sister or her friends. And least of all, not _him_. 

She stalked down Fullerton, gripping herself tightly. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Just because he had caught a glimpse of her didn't mean he'd track her down and proceed to entertain himself by bothering her. 

And she knew he would bother her. He was annoying and perverse and caustic and abrasive. Just mocking her could easily amuse him. She burned inside with vexation just thinking about it. It was the most she had felt in weeks, but she wasn't very grateful for feeling. 

It's not like she had forgotten how he fought beside her in that last battle. She hadn't forgotten that he was a good fighter and partner. But that wasn't her life anymore. She didn't want to be reminded of it. And what was he, more than a walking reminder of the life she had been trying so hard to avoid?

No, she tried to ease herself into thinking. No, it's okay. He doesn't care that much about it. He probably didn't even see me. He probably doesn't care if he never sees me again------

And then she heard it. 

"Buffy!" 

She groaned inwardly. No one had uttered that name for weeks and she had hoped she would go years before hearing it again. She pretended to not hear and continued on her way, rushing down the sidewalk. 

He called out her name again. "Buffy!"

She hesitated, but didn't stop. Not until he called out for the third time, "Buffy!" did she pause. Clenching her fists, she sighed and turned to face him. 

"Spike." 

He stopped and smirked smugly at her. His face seemed to glow just from the annoyance he was eliciting from her. He nodded. "Slayer. I thought it was you."

She had no time for this. "What do you want?' she hissed. 

"I mean, I couldn't tell what with the new Supercuts do you got going on.." He pointed at the air around to mimic her own transformation. "But the pissed-off expression just gave it away. What's with the new bouffant anyway?"

She ground her teeth. "I did it to go unrecognized."

He whistled. "Well let me tell you, I don't think it did the trick. You want to go covertly- like, you need massive personality overhaul. For instance, that instant bitchy persona is distinctly you. Won't be easily relieved with a few snippings of the shears."

She shook her head and repeated, "What do you _want_, Spike?"

"Can't a fella say 'ello to a mate if he feels like it?"

She stared at him, mystified. "Mate?"

He shrugged. "Well okay, someone I don't particularly wish death upon."

She pursed her lips. "Well hi. There you go. Now if you can let me go on my way----"

"Wait a bloody second." He gently grabbed her arm before she could stride off. "I run into one of Sunnydale's finest and she can't even spare a little small talk?"

She winced when he had said the dreaded _S-_word. She wanted to stay unreminded of home at all costs. "We've never done small talk, Spike."

"Well I say we start. Come on, how long you been in L.A.? What you been doing here? Painting the town red with Sis and Mum, I bet. Don't say I get the whole waitressing gig, but I guess it's always good to rack up a few dollars during the summer."

She widened her eyes. Behind his affable, light socializing, he had no clue. "Don't . . . don't you know what happened?"

He looked sincerely blank. "What? What happened?"

"I . . . I'm here in L.A. by myself. Not with my mom or Dawn at all. I left Sunnydale . . . for good."

He stared at her for a moment before erupting into laughter. "Oh gone on!"

She furrowed her brows and glanced around nervously. "I'm serious! I left Sunnydale right after . . . right after that thing with Acathla."

He immediately stilled and stopped laughing. "You left when?"

"Well I thought you would know. Everyone else probably found out the day I left, unless you . . ." She paused. So he hadn't been trying to track her down after all. He must have left for L.A. before she did, or around the same time. "Wait. When did _you_ arrive in L.A?"

"Day after the Acathla business, same as you." She noticed that he immediately grew dark and guarded, as if he was reluctant to even refer to the event. Suddenly, he perked up and stared at her. "Wait. That means . . . you've been in L.A. this whole time, same as me!" He started to laugh. "Well bollocks, we could have gotten together and formed the Lonely Hearts Band!"

She didn't laugh at all. He grew quiet also when he realized this was more truthful than funny. He sighed and stared down at the pavement, as did she. Feeling slightly more sociable, she looked up and asked him quietly, "So where are you staying?"

He seemed to shrink at the innocent question. Trying to shrug again flippantly, his face masked over so that it was unreadable. "Oh you know . . . places . . . here and there."

Something about his demeanor made her instantly suspicious. "What's 'here and there'?"

"What you are, my Mum? 'Here and there' is 'here and there'! You know, mates' flats and the like."

She shrugged and waved her head around dubiously. "Where do they live? Around here?"

He pursed his lips and clenched his teeth. "Why yes, Mrs. Summers, they do," he crooned in a falsetto accent. "What the hell are you asking for? Sod off." 

It was funny how the tables had turned and he was the one who wanted _her_ to shut up. She ignored him. "You know," she said in a patronizing voice. "This neighborhood isn't exactly the safest place to live."

He furrowed his brows and cocked his head at her. "Speak for yourself."

"Well I think both you and I know I can handle myself, don't we?"

He shrugged. "Buffy could. But you don't seem to be her anymore, do you . . . Anne?" He finished, squinting at her little clip-on waitress tag. "What with the hair, the new locale and all. Looks like you're running away from what you used to be."

She glowered silently as he struck a chord. "Not the only one to be doing that, am I?"

"Oh I fully admit to running away willy-nilly, first chance I got. But at least I'm not pretending to be noble and isolated and anti-social."

She stared at him innocently. "Who's pretending?"

He smirked at her, then stuffed his hands in his pockets. "If that's the way you feel, fine. You don't fancy talking with another member of the human race, I won't burden you. See you around, princess."

With that, he turned around and walked away, leaving her stunned on the sidewalk. She hadn't seen that coming. Didn't think he would leave so abruptly. She was fuming and on edge while talking to him, but she secretly felt better at the same time. It was the most she had spoken to another person in weeks. She watched his retreating, black-duster-waving figure in confusion and furrowed her eyebrows, almost in wistfulness. But it soon passed and she returned to walking home, wondering if she would see him again. 

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TBC………Haven't had a chance to edit it, I was too excited to upload it (impatient ol' me), so excuse some slight typos, I'll go back and fix them later.


	2. Helping Hand

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Disclaimer: I do not own any the characters of BtVS, I'm just a lowly follower with a ridiculously active mind. 

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Rating: PG-13 for language. 

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Feedback: Of course! Feel free to email me feedback at Buggers267@aol.com if you like too. Remember, reviews = updates (at least quicker ones).

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Chapter 2: Helping Hand 

A few nights a week, when she wasn't too tired from the strenuous hours at the dinner, she went to the little club down the street. It was clean and well lighted and usually occupied by friendly visitors who swayed amiably to the music of the bands that played on the colorful stage, varying night to night. It reminded her of the Bronze, except it was completely different. No place would be like Bronze, not without the usual exclusive group of bookworms, laconic guitarists, and good-hearted buffoons. It would never seem quite as bright, quite as fun, quite as free without these particular people around. It pained her slightly whenever the comparison flitted through her mind, but she sullenly reminded herself that this was how it was supposed to be. 

She sat at the bar, morosely stirring her rum and coke in the glass. She was a regular and the bartender knew full well that she was under 21, but she always looked too melancholy to refuse selling a drink to. Besides, she never did anything more than sip. She never had the intention of drowning her sorrows in a bottle. She wanted to look like a droopy alcoholic so that people would knowingly leave her alone. It was character self-assassination.

The bartender shook his head at her as he cleaned the glasses. She raised an eyebrow at him. She knew he knew what she was doing. And he couldn't understand it. Once he had asked her, "What does a pretty little girl have to be so broken up about? Guy troubles?"

She nodded resignedly. 

"He dumped you?"

She shook her head. 

He whistled. "Well whoever he is, he seems like a tool. Who'd wanna hurt a nice sweet kid like you?" He waved a hand at her. "You ask me, he can go to hell."

She was emotionless, but inside, she turned to ice. "If only you knew," she muttered to herself. 

Tonight, he had watched as three perfectly nice gentlemen sidled up to her, asking politely for a dance. Coldly, she rejected them, one-by-one, all with a flippant shake of her blonde mane. The bartender whistled again.

"Geez, takes a lot to get a word in with you, huh Blondie? You're making these guys really _work_ for it."

The look she gave him indicated that they would have to do more than work to get in a word with her. They would have to be "him" . . .

. . . Or Spike, apparently. 

She scrunched her face into an intense frown when he carelessly plopped into the chair next to her. It was only when she cleared her throat and shot him a murderous scowl did he turn to her with innocent wide eyes. 

"Oh I'm sorry, is this seat taken?"

He had said it in a mock-polite tone and she wasn't falling for it.

"_Spike!_" she seethed through clenched teeth.

Raised, scarred eyebrow. "Is it?" he persisted genteelly. 

She sighed. "If the alternative is you, Spike, then yes, it's taken."

He shrugged indifferently. "Finders keepers."

She grabbed the chair out from under him and he stumbled back onto his ass with a yelp. "Can it, Spike. I don't have times for your games. Can't you find another girl to annoy?"

He sniffed, climbing into the chair. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just asking the good man for a drink." He waved a bill at the bartender. "Scotch on the rocks."

She rolled her eyes disgustedly. "Who are you, Colonel Mustard? Can't you drink like a normal eighteen-year old?"

"My, aren't we the prattly one tonight. Here I am, minding my own business and you immediately take to metaphorically boxing my ears."

Eyes slit, she folded her arms across her chest. "Another minute of this, it won't be so metaphorical."

"Oh don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not bothering you. I have a right to be here, same as you."

"What happened to leaving me alone?"

"What happened to you being anti-social?" he snorted. "I figure it'd make more sense, me being here than you. Don't have the same aversion to people you do, pet."

She glared at him, swirling the ice in her glass irritatedly. "I don't have an aversion to people, just to you."

"Go on girl, you're making me blush."

The bartender tried unsuccessfully to contain his laughter. "You guys know each other?"

They both answered in unison:

"No."

"Yes."

The bartender laughed again and Spike smugly put his arm around Buffy's barstool. She roughly pushed him off and he willingly fell back, chuckling as well. With a sigh, Buffy closed her eyes and waved a hand at Spike. "Yes," she admitted. "Unfortunately, yes I know him."

"Oh don't be so modest, girl." He snaked his arm around her shoulder once more and grinned impishly at the bartender. "Known each other since we were tots, us two. Yea big." He held his hand a few feet from the floor. "Playtime, we used to do this rowdy version of 'Doctor'----"

Buffy clamped a hand on his mouth and he started laughing again. Inflamed with annoyance, she bit her lip and smacked him upside the head. She glanced apologetically at the bartender. "We didn't really know each other back then. . . we aren't really friends . . ." she explained. 

"Don't tell me you've forgotten our prepubescent romps and wrestling matches---" Spike cut in once more with a puckish grin, only to be silenced by an irate Buffy. 

"That's enough, Spike," she hissed. "I'm serious. Leave me alone."

Once she let go, he unfurled back out into his chair. "But it's so much more _fun_ this way."

"I can't believe you," she fumed, throwing her hands in the air. She got up to go, incensed. This was too much. He think he could just stride up to her, proceed to mock her and then---

His eyes suddenly widened as he seemed to spot something past her shoulder. Abruptly, he grabbed her arm. "Come on, Blondie, let's dance." He started to pull her out onto the dance floor. 

"What?!" Astounded she tried to wrench free. This was surreal. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" She turned around and scanned the crowd to see where he was looking. Staring straight at them was a bulky, towering man with a thick neck and an intimidatingly stone-like face. He rapidly approached them. "Who is that?"

He had already tugged her onto the floor, grabbing her hands up in jerk-like motions to feign the impression of lively dancing. "My Aunt Betty. Now come on Slayer, get on with your fancy feet." He tried spinning her around in rigid motions, all the time staring fixedly at the man. He held her waist and wrist, trying to wave her around in a rhythmic manner, but he was too absorbed with the presence of tall man to even notice that she was yelping, being thrown into ridiculous spins and awkward dips. 

After being forcibly yanked around, Buffy broke free and glared at him. "Spike! What the hell is going on?!"

He sighed, finally forced to fill her in with the details. "Keep you trap shut," he whispered to her conspiratorially. "If you must know, that ape-like character has been on my tail for days now. I have to make it look like I'm occupied so he won't take the opportunity to pummel the guts out of me."

Confused, she turned around. The man had his arms crossed, still staring at the steadily. She could tell he meant business with Spike. He was thick and brutal looking, the regular prototype of a hit man. Apprehensively, she turned back to Spike, who was still dancing with her a little less aggressively. "What did you do?" she murmured. 

He shrugged. "Nothing to warrant a kicking-of-the-arse. Just borrowed a few bucks from his kid brother, with the _full_ intention of paying him back, but he wants the money back quicker than I can give it----"

She eyed him skeptically. "What's a 'few bucks'?"

He hesitated, but shrugged again. "Y'know . . . well I . . . you see . . ." He sighed, and broke. "Five hundred."

"Five hundred!" she exploded in dismay. "You stole five hundred dollars from that, that . . . _goon_?!"

"Well _stole_ is such an ugly word . . . Borrowed, more like. Made temporary use of."

"How can you make temporary use of five hundred dollars?!"

"Very easily. Made a trip to Las Vegas, bet all the money, lost all the money and . . . well that pretty much brings us up to date."

This got worse and worse. He was unbelievable, so she told him so. "You _bet _some guy's money?! You're unbelievable!"

"Hey, it was merely an economical venture. I thought I was making a very strategically sound move."

"You _stole_ a mobster's money! And then you _bet_ on it! That's not sound, that's suicidal!"

"Ah ah ah pet, _stole_ is such a-----"

"Shut up!" She threw down his hands. "I can't believe you're using me as bait to guard against some criminal, I'm not going to help you-----"

"Is this guy giving you trouble ma'am?" The tall man was at their side in an instant, solid and foreboding. Warily, Buffy stared up at him and grew nervous as he eyed Spike, baring his teeth and cracking his massive knuckles. One gold tooth glinted in the light and Buffy shuddered. Unable to do anything else, she wavered and put her hand on Spike's chest, patting it with a plastered smile. 

"O-oh, no s-sir. We're good. My boyfriend, he just stepped on my brand new Manolo Blahniks. Ugh, he . . . massacred them." She flashed a grand grin and hugged Spike uneasily. 

"That's right!" Spike held her tightly and a bit protectively (although it was more for his protection than hers) as Buffy tried to repress a grimace. "I'm a terrible cad on the dance floor you see, but nothing a little lover's quarrel won't straighten out."

The man made no move to leave. He looked them both up and down suspiciously, finally cocking his head at Spike. "We gotta talk first."

Spike trembled with his arms still slung around Buffy, who kept him up. But he regained his composure and sniffed sanctimoniously, "Well can it wait? Me and Ginger here are just about to get the soft-shoe routine in."

"Pleasure can wait, Dancing Boy. We got business." The man gruffly punctuated this by grabbing Spike round the collar. Spike swallowed hard and submissively followed him through the crowd. Buffy panicked and watched as they made their way through the club, crashing through the back door and out into the alley. 

Her hand curled instinctively into a fist. As she watched them, the impulse to grab the tall man and pummel him into meek cowardice was rising within her, but another internal voice willed it down. She didn't do that anymore. She wasn't the slayer. She was just a girl. Just a girl. 

Conflicted, she didn't know what to do. She had tried to so hard to avoid her old life, the fighting and the brawls. One half-hour spent with Spike and it all came barreling back what with his criminal antics and his gibing and his mockery of her. God, he was infuriating. She should let him be pounded to a smirking pulp . . . shouldn't she? 

She sighed, finally striding to the back of the club towards the alley. 

In the dark alleyway, the tall man had Spike pinned hard against a wall, his fist hanging threateningly in the air. Spike had already been administered with a black eye. 

"Tell me where the money is, punk ass," Tall Man growled. 

Spike sighed, his head rolling around on the brick. "Don't ask me. Circulating among Las Vegas tourists no doubt. Businessmen, blue-haired little old ladies----"

"Shut up!" He dragged Spike off the wall and sent him crashing violently back onto it. If that wasn't enough, he grabbed Spike's head and slammed it violently. "You better get me the money and soon."

"I don't have it---"

He thrust Spike's head against the wall again and Spike groaned in pain. "_Get_ it," he snarled. 

Buffy rolled her eyes and put her hands to her hips. "Hey, Cro-Magnon!" When the tall man turned, Buffy shot him a saucy grin. "Get _this._"

She immediately launched into a stunning kick that knocked him back a few paces. Astounded, he stared at her for a moment, but she already spun into a roundhouse that sent him stumbling once more. Regaining footing, the tall man tried to rush her, but she ducked and he crashed into the opposite wall. Striding up to him, she pinned him against the wall, punching him powerfully. Although he started to slump, he managed to trip her and kick her in the side. She quickly kicked back up, but he was ready, throwing out a clumsy punch. She ducked his first one and continued to duck as he swung more heavy punches. She suddenly jumped up and whipped out more precise, sharp and heavy blows to his face. Finally, she grabbed him and practically hoisted him up over her head, sending him crashing into a dumpster. He crumpled to the ground and looked up at her in fear. Scrambling up, he started to run out of the alley. 

She gazed at him as he ran. He was the first person she had . . . well, not _slayed_, but saved someone from. She usually felt smug and self-satisfied after something like this, but now she felt only hollow and cold. She didn't want to have to do this again. 

Wiping her hands, she tiredly turned back to Spike, who was still exhaustedly seated on the ground by the wall. She held out her hand, but he just spat blood at her. With his eyes slitted, he murmured, "Bitch."

Taken aback, she drew her hand away quickly. "What?"

He got up and brushed his duster off forcefully, still angry. "You heard me."

"Excuse me if I'm a tad muddled . . . in general customs, people usually offer a 'thank you' at times like these."

"Thank you for what? For emasculating me? For showing that bastard I need a _girl_ for protection?"

"Well apparently you _do_. God, I saved your ass and all you do is gripe. You're amazingly maddening." She shook her head in disbelief. 

"All you did was prolong a beating. That guy's not gonna stop tracking me down, you know. And now that you bruised more than his ego by kicking the shit out of him, he'll take it out on _me_ next time around."

She softened. "Oh. I didn't think . . ."

"'Course you didn't," Spike sneered. "Not a stretch to say you don't think of much besides yourself." He started to walk away from her, but she grabbed his arm. 

"Wait. Where are you going?"

He paused and darkened. "Home," he finally muttered.

The way he said the word seemed off somehow. She squinted her eyes and scrutinized him carefully. She knew there was something he wasn't saying. "Where's home, Spike?" she asked quietly. 

He sighed. "We've already been through this. Home is---"

"Your 'mates' flat, I know. But who are your mates? Where _exactly_ do they live?"

" . . . Around."

She was relentless. "Around _where_?" 

He clenched his teeth and fists and finally cracked. "Fine. Fine Blondie, you want to hear me say it? Fine. I _don't_ have a home. I'm homeless. Isn't that the bloody spectacle? Why don't you laugh it up, say 'oh that maddening Spike finally got his'. Because I don't have a home. I sleep in alleyways sometimes, take showers at the YMCA and try to scrounge money when I can. And the people I _can_ scrounge it from try to shoot my bloody head off every time I turn around. Funny isn't it?" His expression was mordantly bitter, but under all of that, he looked inexplicably lost. 

Shocked, Buffy was speechless. Judging from his jesting attitude every time they had met, she didn't think he had it so bad. She didn't think he had nowhere to go. Biting her lip, she lightly touched the cut on his forehead and his black eye. "You need to get that looked at," she noted quietly. 

Her touch was tender and he paused for a moment, but soon batted her hand away. "It's fine."

"It isn't." She paused. "You're telling me you have no place to go?"

He exploded, hating to look vulnerable. "How many times I gotta say it, Buffy? Like to rub it in my face, don't you?"

She flinched, but gazed at him steadily. "It's dangerous out here, what with guys like that looking for you." She looked lost in thought.

He looked up at her with an ambiguous expression. "Yeah . . . what would you know about it, girl?"

She sighed and donned an expression of resolution. "Well, it's pretty obvious there's only one thing to do."

He cocked an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

Innocently, she picked up her purse, strewn on pavement before looking back up. "You're coming home with me."

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TBC…………………….I hope to update soon, but I have mad stuff to do. Also, since the chapters are longer for this story than "Haven", I think it'll be updated less often. I hope you enjoy both the stories all the same. 


	3. Roommates

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Disclaimer: I do not own any the characters of BtVS, I'm just a girl with an infatuation for Spike and lots of time on her hands.

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Rating: PG-13 for language. 

****

Feedback: Of course! Feel free to email me feedback at Buggers267@aol.com if you like too. 

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Chapter 3: Roommates

She entered the tiny apartment with a sigh, throwing the keys to a small desk. He stood outside the door, shuffling his feet awkwardly. She looked around and saw him staring through the doorway darkly so she sighed and rested against the frame. 

Raising an eyebrow, she asked coolly, "Coming in?"

He sniffed and jostled his hands around in his pockets. "I find this quite strange."

She indifferently abandoned the door and disappeared into the apartment. "I don't like it any more than you do," she called. "But it's better than the alternative of you lying dead in the gutter somewhere."

He pursed his lips and entered the threshold with a frown. "Thanks for the jolly welcome," he muttered, shrugging of his duster. He studied the tidy little apartment carefully. It consisted of a bed, a desk, a dresser, a small bathroom tucked off somewhere and about five square feet of kitchen area. "Nice digs you got," he lied. " Small, but nice."

She emerged from the bathroom with a bottle of iodine, cotton balls and bandages. "Emphasis on small," she agreed. "It's all I can afford on my miniscule income."

"So you're perfectly willing to room with another flatmate? Wouldn't cramp your style?"

She gave him a steady, pointed look. "Didn't think it would matter much to you."

He returned her look with a glare. "Look, don't think you're doing me any favors. Contrary to what you believe, I don't particularly enjoy staying with people who can't stand me."

She sighed and approached him, trying to lead him to a chair. "I didn't say I couldn't stand you, Spike. I can. I just don't know how much of you I can."

He wrenched away from her grip. "Well thanks a bloody bunch for the courtesy you've shown me, but I think I'll be on my way. I'd rather sleep in a cardboard box than deal with this."

"Oh stop," she sighed tiredly. "You can't go back out there. That guy is still looking for you."

"Fabulous. Maybe next time he'll knock me deaf so I won't ever have to listen to your harpy yammering again."

She forced him into a seated position in the chair. "Sit. I have to take care of your injuries."

He eyed her skeptically. "I've gotta say, your version of Mother Teresa comes off a might bitchy."

She ignored him and dunked the iodine onto a cotton ball. "This'll sting," she said, reaching for his forehead. 

"Yeah, well I figured living with you would be no picnic." He winced as the cotton made contact with his brow. "Oh, you meant the cut."

She made a face, but continued with her work with the bandages and the cotton balls. Quiet for a moment, Spike stared at her as she tended to him emotionlessly. He groaned a bit as she continued to dab his cuts, indifferent to his pain, but he relaxed a little as he finally asked softly, "Well . . . is it better?"

Her face was hovering near his as she taped a bandage to his forehead, but she didn't even turn to look at him. "Is what better?" 

His eyes were fixed on her seriously. "Y'know . . . _this_. Being here. The whole deal." 

She paused and drew her face away to look him in the eyes. His blue pupils were shining earnestly with a kind of emptiness that she could more than understand. She looked down quickly and began gathering the supplies together. "Does it matter?" she whispered brusquely.

"'Course it matters. It always matters."

"Does it matter to _you_?"

He paused. "It's different for me."

"What makes it so different?"

He grew visibly sullen, lips twitching. "I didn't leave better things. They left me. Didn't have much choice in the matter." His eyes were again on her, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. But she shook out of it and resumed with her apathetic front. 

"Well neither did I."

"Yeah, but you make it sound so weight-of-the-worldly, like being here is such torture."

She straightened, offended. "I never said that."

"Didn't have to. You act like it. You've got this whole martyr complex going on. At least you got a roof over your head. At least you got a steady paycheck. More than I can say for myself."

"Wow Spike. You've just opened up my eyes. I can see now that I've got riches of the heart beyond the telling of it," she deadpanned.

"No need for glibness. I'm just saying if you hate it so much here, why'd you ever leave Sunnydale?"

She leveled a deathly look at him. He had entered into dangerous territory. "You know why," she murmured.

"I know why _you_ think you left. Or what you tried to convince yourself into believing when you left. But that doesn't give me the real reason."

She sat back and laughed mirthlessly. "You have me figured out Spike? Highly unlikely."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and continued. "You left because your honey had an extreme case of bipolar disorder. He jumped off the high end and took you down with him. So you had to kill him and it suddenly turned you into Joan of Arc."

She flew up and rage sparked from her hazeled orbs. "Spike," she said in a cautionary tone that encompassed lurking fire. "_Shut up_."

Ignoring her, he lit up a cigarette lazily and carried on with his dissertation. "Sounds like a right waste if you ask me. He was worthless creature, soul or not."

Springing up from the chair, she shook her head furiously and began to pace the room. "No one did ask you. We are _so_ not talking about this, Spike. Leave it alone."

He was relentless. "I mean, come on. With a soul, he feeds on helpless mothers and attacks innocent teenagers----"

"No one would call you _innocent, _Spike."

"And without one, he harbors apocalyptic aspirations and an insatiable thirst for chaos."

She grit her teeth. "You don't know what you're talking about. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"So really, kind of a chump, he was. Yet you still think he's worth getting worked up over."

"What about _you_?" she fired back harshly. "You're going to tell me the world crumbled the day you staked Dru?"

His features hardened and she knew she had hit the mark she wanted. "It crumbled for _me,_" he rasped out roughly. 

"Why Spike? Was it her dazzling display of logical reasoning? Or maybe it was her perfectly normal and all-consuming fixation for dolls. What made her so worthy of getting worked up over, huh?"

"I _loved_ her!" He snapped back with such wrath that it alarmed Buffy for second. Casting a dark look down at her hands, she pursed her lips and replied quietly, 

"Well I loved him too."

He clenched his teeth and shook his head. "Not the way I loved Dru."

Her eyes inflamed once more, she scoffed. "That's right. Because you're the only one in the world who can understand how to really love."

He looked up at her dangerously. "It wasn't love with you and Angel. It was obsession."

Shocked, her face went blank. "What are you talking about, Spike?"

"It was like a drug, wasn't it? Him being so bad. Come on, don't tell me you don't see it. Only the sickest girl in the world would fall for a two-hundred-year-old vampire. And a girl who's the _slayer_, no less."

She bit her lip and stalked to the kitchen. She had had enough. She aimlessly and frantically searched around in the kitchen for something to distract her from Spike. She clattered around with the pots and pans, hoping the sound would detract from Spike's stupid, hurtful lies. Except what made them so hurtful was the fact that they weren't lies. His even voice just rose over the noise.

"Admit it. You like the bad guys. Or . . . guy I should say. But considering he was two sides to an equally threatening coin, I reserve the right to make it plural."

She dropped a pot on the floor futilely and looked up helplessly. She was giving up. She couldn't stop his tirades. They just kept coming. The tears began forming under her eyes, so weakly, she whispered, "Spike . . ."

"You get off on the danger. It's a typical suburban valley girl impulse, but with you, it's ten times as twisted. Because he's a vampire and you're the vampire slayer. You like that he hurt you. For some reason, you think you deserve it. That's why you're here, exiling yourself from the real people who love you. The people you've left who need you. You don't care, all you care about is the burn he gave you. The burn you craved."

His words were vaguely razor-edged and malicious and she didn't want to listen anymore. "Stop it!" she cried.

But he was already on a roll, trying to bury her with his storm of barbed words. "It wasn't love. It was fascination. It was perverse compulsion. You like knowing that your fucking around with death, don't you?" He knew he was hurting her, but the words wouldn't stop, unfurling out of his sharp mouth like an exorcism. 

That was the straw that broke her back. Infuriated, she suddenly found herself flung upon him, slapping him, despite his injuries. "Shut up!" she screamed. "Just shut up!"

He let her blows rain down on him, not feeling the pain. They were clumsy, for one thing, and hardly made an impact. Besides, he never really felt anything anymore when beaten. He was beaten down enough. But now, some life flickered in him as she hit him, tears running down her face. As she continued screaming and slapping him, he suddenly caught her frail wrists in her hands and grasped them tightly. 

Hiccuping a sob, she stopped and stared back at him as he glowered. There was something in his expression that made her know that he was just as lost and broken as she was, despite how abusive his words had been. He was like a reflection of everything she had known and felt for the past few months. Even though she was the Slayer, far excelling him in strength and prowess, they were equals. He somehow understood and knew her. It was the reason he could hurt her so much. And she knew he was only hurting her because she had hurt him too. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, gazing at each other, mystified. She straddled his lap and he held her hands inches from his chest. His face had changed and grown softer somehow and she became aware of it, awkwardly. Suddenly uncomfortable with the position, she freed her hands from his grip and snarled under her breath, "Go to hell."

He blinked twice as if he had broken out of a spell. Baring his lips back from his teeth, he growled back, "Yeah, you like to send all your boys there, don't you?"

She climbed off of him quickly and grabbed her apron off the desk. "This isn't going to work. I want you gone." He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off quickly. "You can stay for the night, just to make sure that guy doesn't hunt you down, but that's it. I'm going to do a double shift at the diner and when I come back, I want to see an empty apartment."

"You and me both," Spike snapped back. "I wouldn't stay here if it was the last fucking sanctuary from a world of fire and brimstone!"

"Well good!"

"Fine!"

"Great!"

"_Bloody_ great!"

It would have gone on like this forever if Buffy hadn't finally punctuated the conversation by thunderously slamming the door. 

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The whole shift at the diner, Buffy scrubbed the countertops and served customers with unusual vehemence. She accumulated only a few dollars in tips the whole day due to her excessive surliness, but she hardly noticed. Every minute, her mind was preoccupied with hateful thoughts over one bleached-blond resident of her home. In her mind, she envisioned elaborate fantasies in which Spike was shot by a fifty-man firing guard. Or eaten alive by rabid wolves. Or drowned by sword-wielding pirates. 

"Damn him, damn him, damn him," she muttered like a chant as she aggressively attacked the lunch top counter. "I hate him. I just . . . I _hate him_."

"That's obvious," Gina, one of the older waitresses mused. "Didn't register the first hundred times you said it, hun."

Whipping her head up, Buffy realized that she had been oblivious to all else in her fury. "Oh, umm . . . s-sorry. I'm just a little stressed out."

"Dearie, both me and that countertop you've scrubbed the veneer off of know that must be a massive understatement of some kind. Care to tell me what ails you?"

Buffy cautiously eyed Gina, the kind of waitress who was always amiably chattering with customers. She was used to listening to other people's troubles and giving them a good-natured word of advice. Buffy wavered, but shook her head. "It's okay, really."

Gina gave her a sly grin. "Let me guess," she prodded on. "It's a boy, isn't it?"

Buffy's closed her eyes, knowing that Gina imagined a scenario far different than the one currently happening to her. But still, she admitted, "How did you know?"

"I just know about these things. You have that look on your face. That, 'I don't know why I put up with him' look."

She twisted her lips into a half-smile. "I don't."

"No one does, honey. We only stand by our men because it's all we can do."

The thin connection between what Gina and Buffy were incongruously thinking of was loosing its correlation. "Oh that's not it," Buffy said hurriedly. "He's not . . . 'my man'. God no."

Gina gave her a knowing smile. "We all try to convince ourselves of that to make it easier," she replied, nodding affably like the sage. "We try to tell ourselves that they're not a part of our lives. But it never really works, does it?"

Buffy shook her head resolutely. "No, you don't understand. He really isn't. He's not a part of my life at all. He's more like a . . . an unwelcome visitor. A visitor who's soon departing. In fact, he's exiting my life as we speak."

"Right. Which is why you've been stewing in hatred for him all night. Face it, Blondie. They don't really exit your life until they exit your mind. Which he apparently hasn't done yet."

Buffy paused, not knowing how to respond to this. Gina was making the whole situation sound like a simple lover's quarrel. She clearly knew that this wasn't the case, so why did it bother her so much?

The diner clock struck 6am, signifying the end of her shift. Sighing with relief, she handed her apron to Gina. "That's my cue. I'll see you later."

Gina nodded. "'Course dear. And remember . . ." Buffy turned around to face her and Gina smiled reassuringly. "Things will work out between you and that boy of yours. Just you wait and see."

Buffy turned away, filled with disgust. Spike would never be her 'boy', not if she could help it. Good thing he would be gone by the time she came home. She would never have to ponder over the revolting possibility. 

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"Spike, what the hell are you doing here?!"

Buffy stood in the door, hands fixed on her hips with dismay. Spike turned around from the tatty old chair that faced the TV.

"Just watching the telly. What are _you_ doin' here?"

"I _live_ here!! You DON'T!!" her voice exploded with frustration. She stormed into the room and flew to turn off the TV. Spike sat up quickly in protest, waving a frantic hand at the screen.

"What are you doing? That's _Starsky and Hutch, _woman!"

"I don't care if it's buddy-cop show starring the Pope and Courtney Love. I want to know why the hell you're still here!"

Spike sank back down into the recliner lazily. "You said I could stay the night."

"Spike! It's 6 _am_. _AM _as in . . . Aye! It's MORNING!"

He sniffed. "Clever. But I'm not fully rested yet."

"What are you talking about? What happened to not wanting to stay here even if it was the last place on earth?"

"That was before I found out you had cable. And those marvelous Hot Pocket things in the fridge."

"Oh my god, Spike, you've _got_ to get out of here!" Buffy cried. "I can't _believe _you!"

He looked up at her blankly. "You were the one who told me I could stay here last night. To guard for my life, you said."

"That was before I figured out I didn't _care_ whether you lived or not!"

He went to turn the TV back on. "You wouldn't be able to live with yourself if I died as a result of you putting me out onto the streets."

She squared her teeth. "It's a chance I'm willing to take."

"Sorry luv, but I've got to be concerned for my own welfare."

"Well be concerned for it somewhere else. And don't call me that."

"Come on. We could keep each other company. And I get to watch my programs. _Get Smart _s'on in ten."

She was astounded. He was acting like nothing had happened only a few hours before. He was acting like he hadn't said those hurtful words, like she hadn't attacked him hysterically. She couldn't figure him out and she wasn't sure if she wanted to. All she knew was at the moment, she was far too fatigued to launch into a protest strong enough to pry him from the apartment. So she just sighed and shook her head at him. 

"You can stay for one more day, Spike, but that's it. And don't think I'm giving in. I'm just too tired to lift you from the premises."

Spike didn't turn around, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Whatever you say, luv."

"Don't call me that," she retorted sharply before drifting off into the bathroom to change for bed. When she returned to the room, she awkwardly covered herself up. She was wearing what she always wore to bed, a skimpy camisole and short boxers. But she was only now aware of her appearance in the presence of Spike. He simply raised an eyebrow as she self-consciously made her way to bed, but didn't say a word. As she climbed into bed and slid under the sheets, she paused and gave him one last word of uneasy semi-harshness. 

"Only one more day, Spike."

"We'll see, duchess."

"I said _one more day_," she said, her voice stony now.

"And I said we'll see."

She threw her hands up in ire. "I hate you, Spike."

"Likewise, luv. Now go to sleep."

His tone was emotionless, but strangely comforting. Frowning, she fluffed a pillow and sank down into her bed, feeling unsettled. Somewhere inside, she knew her 'only one more day' riff was a lie. Whether she liked it or not, Spike was her roommate now. There was some strange and unspoken link between the two that couldn't be so easily severed as Buffy desired. 

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TBC………………….


	4. Better

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Disclaimer: I do not own any the characters of BtVS, I'm just a devoted worshiper of the temple that is James Martsters.

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Rating: PG-13 for language. 

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Feedback: Of course! Don't forget to check out my other current WIP fic "Haven"! 

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Chapter 4: Better 

It had been a torturous five days, and still he was there, a part of her home, a part of her life. She was beginning to think that if that mobster didn't track Spike down soon and snap his cocky little head from his neck, she would. 

"Spike!" she yelped the sixth morning, emerging from the shower in a soaked bathrobe with sodden hair. "What the hell have you done with the all the conditioner?!"

Spike was grumbling around the kitchen with his head stuck in the fridge. "Bloody hell, woman, isn't there ever anything to _eat_ around here?" he irately snapped back. He grimaced at the lone jar of peanut butter that occupied the empty space. "If I have to eat one more breakfast made of nothing but spoonfuls of that peanutty goo, it'll be death for someone."

Buffy stood fuming as her hair continued to rain down upon her, dripping down her shoulders and onto the carpet. "Spike," she tried saying repressed and testily. "_What have you done with the conditioner?_"

He sniffed and shrugged indifferent. "Used it up I guess." He patted his blinding blond hair smugly. "Gotta keep the tresses nice and soft, you know."

She threw her hands up in rage. "Spike! I just bought a new bottle the other day! What did you do, slather the entire contents onto your head?! You barely have any hair anyway!"

"Hey!" he exclaimed back, offended. "I'll have you know my locks are lustrous and thick indeed. And quit your bitching, there are more important tasks at hand."

She stared at him with teeth clenched. "More important tasks?" 

"Well yeah. There's still the predicament of me havin' nothing to eat."

"What am _I _supposed to do about it?!"

"Well you _are_ the lady of the household. This is supposed to be your field of expertise. Why don't you shimmy on the apron and have a go at the stove?"

She rolled her eyes, fully enraged now. Throwing the empty conditioner bottle with a fiery vengeance at his chest, she crossed her arms across her chest. "I _can't_, you chauvinist pig. I'm already late for work."

He furrowed his eyebrows, puzzled. "Thought you worked the graveyard shift at the diner."

"I do. But one of the waitresses called in sick, so I have to fill in." She wasn't going to tell him that she hurriedly accepted the offer to fill in, just to get out of the house and away from _him_. Going back to the bathroom to change, Spike was left confused, blindsided and most of all, hungry. So he pounded on the bathroom door helplessly. 

"Hey! What am I to do about breakfast?"

"I don't know!" she griped back through the closed door. "Why don't you go out and get something to eat yourself?"

He leaned against the door grumpily. "You know I can't. I'm all out of monetary funds from doing the grocery shoppin' last time."

"Spike, buying cigarettes and booze does not constitute as grocery shopping."

"Hey, I don't question your dietary habits, do I?"

She barged through the bathroom door, rushing to grab her apron and hat. "Sorry Spike, but I guess you'll just have to starve." She paused and began to smile brightly. "Wait scratch that. I'm not sorry. In fact, I think I'm overcome with a feeling of delight."

He growled darkly at her. "That's right, Blondie, laugh it up. Have no pity for your starving roommate who's holed up in a closet-sized apartment in order to protect his life against a murderous hit man." He gave her his most sympathetic pout.

She made a face at him. "Fine," she sighed. She fumbled through her purse and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, throwing it at him. He licked his lips and grabbed it greedily with a smile. "But _don't_ ask me again. That's the third time I've given you money this week."

"You treat me splendidly, girl," he mused, sliding the bill into his duster with satisfaction. He waggled his eyebrows and held out his arms teasingly. "Now come here and kiss Daddy before you go."

Scoffing disgustedly, she stalked through the front door, saying, "Make sure you spend it on _food_, brain-trust. For the both of us. I am _not _digesting Joe Camel and Heinies for the next five days."

"Yeah, well you just make sure to get your cute little ass home before dinner." He smirked and raised a single eyebrow. "And _call_ if you're going to be late."

She shook her head at the twisted domestic circumstance and slammed the door loudly. 

*********************************************

"You've been certainly putting in a lot of hours lately, Anne," Gina noted. 

Buffy smiled sheepishly as she filled the salt-and-pepper shakers. "Well the money's a little tight lately. Figured it's always good to pick up more cash when I can."

"Still, one wonders how you manage to squeeze in any sleep with all the shifts you've been working."

She shrugged. "It's no big. I'm used to the joys of sleep deprivation. Like whenever I had to research another apocalypse_----_" Buffy paused when Gina's eyebrows shot up alarmingly. Recovering quickly, she added in haste, "I m-mean . . . biology. Research biology. 'Apocalypse' is just my code name for the horror of cell processes."

Gina chuckled confusedly and shook her head. She eyed the petit blonde carefully. "You know, when one of the girls asks to word extra hours, it's usually because there's something at home they're trying to avoid."

Buffy straightened self-consciously, spilling as cascade of salt down her front. "Huh," she murmured. "I certainly can't relate to that."

Gina didn't relent. Staring at her knowingly, she asked gently, "So how are you and that boy of yours?"

"Oh. Umm w-well. Good, I guess."

"Still irritating the hell out of you, huh?"

Buffy dropped what she was holding and turned to Gina in relief. "_Yes_." She shook her head. "Sometimes I don't know why I just don't kick him out onto the street."

Amused, Gina poured herself a cup of coffee. "So why don't you?"

Buffy paused. She obviously couldn't tell Gina about Spike's misadventures into the mob world, and that was the only reason she tolerated Spike . . . wasn't it? "Well . . . there are . . . circumstances."

"Circumstances, huh? Sounds to me like you're using another one of your code names again."

Buffy grimaced. If Gina wasn't so good-natured, Buffy would cast her down as being annoyingly intuitive. Opening her mouth to say something, she was suddenly struck silent when she caught sight of a scene near the front of the diner. A middle-aged man was seated with a girl who looked not much older than Buffy herself in one of the booths amongst an abundance of expensive-looking shopping bags. The man had his arm around the girl and was whispering in her ear seductively. The scantily clad girl was giggling hysterically, plastered to the older man's chest. Even worse, the man's hand slipped down the young girl's creamy thigh and up her dress, making the girl laugh even more lasciviously. The sight made Buffy sick to her stomach. But all she could do was gaze blankly at the two with a horrified expression on her face. Gina frowned when she saw Buffy and gazed out at the couple in the booth. "You know them, hun?"

"Huh?" She broke out of her daze. "Oh. N-no. I d-don't."

"You sure? For a second there, you looked like you knew that cradle-robber well."

Her cheeks were ablaze with color as she turned back to the salt shakers. "I don't," she affirmed shakily. "Never seen that guy before in my life." Still, she stole furtive glances at the man and his girl, growing more agitated by their behavior. Finally, not being able to stand it, she turned to Gina. "You know, that sleep deprivation thing is getting to me after all. Can you tell Mitch I'm taking off?"

Concerned, Gina whipped her head up and down in agreement. "Sure Anne. But what's-----"

But she had already scrambled out the back door. 

**********************************************

Buffy entered the door in a flurry, slumping against the door. Her face was still pinched white and bright red in perturbation. Gasping deeply for a semblance of control, her legs gave way and she sank to the floor in a seated position. She stayed that way for a few seconds, shaking and silent, until Spike lumbered in from the kitchen. 

"'Ere now, where's the fire?" He was comically dressed in one of her spare aprons, shifting a brown grocery bag in his arms. He face twisted into a disappointed frown when he saw her crumpled into a ball next to the door. "Oh. It's just you. What an unpleasant surprise." He left her, entering the kitchen once more. "What happened to your shift? Someone needs to earn the bread to put the food on this table---" His invective was interrupted as Buffy had suddenly burst into the kitchen, by his side. Her hands rummaged furiously through the paper bag he held. "Hey! What the bloody hell are you doing?!"

"Where is it, Spike. I know you bought it, I just know you did." Her voice was wavering uncontrollably and her lips were bared back in determination as her hand disappeared into the bottom of the bag, finally drawing out a bottle of Jacks Daniel. Spike's eyes bugged out of his skull as he watched her uncap the bottle with force and take a long slug from it. 

"Buffy, what are you---" he murmured in amazement as she made a face and threw her head back for another swallow. Dropping the rest of the bag, he lunged at her, trying to steal the bottle away. "Stop it!"

She shrugged out of his grasp and tried to take another sip, but Spike overtook her and grabbed the bottle away. Her eyes fired with passionate anger, she reached over to wrestle the Jacks Daniel back, but he held it away from her. Finally, squaring her teeth, she jabbed her elbow forcefully into his chest, making him curl over in pain. As he brought his arm back down, she regained hold of the bottle, but he just retaliated but grabbing a fistful of her hair so that she snapped back and loosened her grip on the bottle. Wriggling it out of her fingers, he held the bottle back and smashed it against the wall. "Alright Joan Collins," he snarled, backing away as Buffy sank into a chair by the table. "Tell me what the _fuck_ just happened!"

Sighing flippantly, Buffy rubbed the back of her head. "Didn't think you would mind sharing," she spat gloomily.

He gaped at her, astounded. "Sharing?! You think this is about _sharing_?! What the hell is wrong with you?! Since when are you a raging lush?!"

"If that's not the pot calling the kettle black. Why is it okay for you to indulge in that stuff, not to mention purchase it illegally, but not okay for me?"

"It's different! I'm accustomed to the evils of shit like this, but you . . ." He paused. How was he supposed to tell her that behind all their animosity and altercations, he thought her purer and cleaner than himself? He didn't want the kind of ugliness that hung over him to touch her. In a sense, he wanted to protect her. "This isn't right for you."

She got up from the table sullenly and slowly, as if the few sips had made her sufficiently tipsy. "Like you get to decide what's right for me."

"I do when you act like this! What's come over you, Buffy?" 

His tone was unusually soft and inquiring, so gentle that it prompted Buffy to look at him, broken and vulnerable. She tried to walk past him. "Nothing. It's nothing."

His arm whipped out and caught her by the shoulder. She twitched at the contact, but he had turned her around so that she faced him again. "It's not nothing. The Buffy I know wouldn't have come storming in here, trying to loose herself in a bottle."

She looked down as her lower lip began to quiver. "You don't know me."

"Sure I do. The Buffy I know would lecture me to death about the harmful effects of liver cirrhosis and those federal warnings on every pack of Marlboros that I ignore anyway. The Buffy I know would smack me upside the head if I tried the stunt you just pulled."

She sighed and lurched into the main room, finally collapsing into her bed. She curled into a ball so she didn't have to look at him and his intruding eyes and questions, but he simply followed her and crouched by the side of the bed so that they were eye-level. Nudging her hair away from her tear-streaked face, he squinted at her carefully. "Tell me."

She pulled her arm up so that her head could rest against her elbow. "It's stupid," she murmured sulkily. She covered her face with her hands. "I was just overreacting to something stupid."

"I'm sure it wasn't. You're the plucky gal who's faced the apocalypse with nothing but a snarky leer on her face. It must have been something big to rile you this way."

She licked her dry lips and tried to get over the awkwardly new situation of Spike being nice to her. But it provided enough comfort to allow her to finally admit, "I saw him."

"Who?"

"My . . . my father."

He leaned back on the balls of his heels in surprise. "Your father? Where?"

"At the diner. He was there with this . . . god, with this . . . _slut_, probably younger than me. He had his hand up her skirt and . . ." She stopped when the words became too odious to utter. 

Spike frowned in commiseration. "Rat bastard."

"And he had bought her all these things. These, these clothes, probably the kind of stuff _I_ wear . . . if I was a real Slutty Mc-Ho-Ho."

He chuckled. "Yeah. As I remember, Harmony Kendall was prime model for such fashions."

She shook her head vacuously. "Mom probably called him after I left. I mean . . . of course she did, how could she not? And he looked like he didn't even care. He doesn't care that I'm missing. He's too busy playing footsy with Jailbait to even worry about me. He . . . . he doesn't care about me. "

Spike covered one of her hands with his owns, and for once, Buffy didn't draw back. But then again, she probably didn't notice. "He's a dick, luv," he said blatantly. "Plain and simple."

She nodded tearfully, but continued. "He hasn't paid child support, o-or called for months. And yet . . . he was just sitting there, after having obviously bought her all this expensive clothes and . . . God, this shouldn't bother me. I'm more worried about Dawn than anything else . . ." But her weakening voice and streaming tears was contradiction to everything she was saying. As she began cracking, she whispered, "This shouldn't bother me . . ."

"Of course it should. How could it not?" Considerately, he went to the bathroom to get a tissue for her and was back at her side in a flash. He began to tenderly brush the tears from her cheeks as she squinted at him distrustfully. 

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she whimpered softly. 

He shrugged. "I guess I just know the woe of having a shitty father."

Buffy leveled herself up before frowning in censure. "Don't say that. Giles isn't a bad-----"

Spike immediately grew stormy and withdrew his hand from hers quickly. "I said it," he muttered morosely. 

"No Spike. My father . . . he's truly . . . well it's not even right to call him 'my father' since he's done nothing to prove that, but . . . Giles always tried to be a good father."

Spike scooted away from her and put his arms atop his legs crossly. "We shouldn't talk about this Buffy. I don't want to start something when you're upset-----"

"You don't understand, Spike," Buffy insisted. For some reason, she felt it important to defend Giles to his son, especially since her own father had failed so miserably in her own eyes. She had to believe that some fathers were still getting it right. "Giles loves you. He always wanted what was best for you. We could all see it. He wanted nothing more than for you to accept him----"

"Then why did he _leave_?!" he shouted sharply, jarring Buffy for a second. He sighed when he saw the small, shocked fear register on her face, so he softened. "Buffy, please," he implored her quietly. "Leave it."

But Buffy wouldn't leave it. Instead, her eyes narrowed as she said quietly, "He loves you Spike. I bet right this minute, he's frantically trying to find you. Not like my dad. Giles must be worried sick------"

"You're the one who doesn't understand, luv. He's the one who wanted me to leave. He's the one who wanted me gone. So right now? He's probably having himself a rum toddy and rejoicing over being rid of his son." Spike clenched his teeth and tried to repress the acerbic bitterness in his tone. 

Buffy sat upright on the bed, speechless. "Spike----"

"Buffy, _please_. _Please." _The supplication was evident in his weary voice. "Please leave it." He had risen up on his legs and was staring out the window wistfully with his forehead against the pane. She stared at his back, which heaved up and down with emotion and suddenly felt compelled to touch him. He wasn't as hard and sharp as he looked, she should have known this. But most of the time, she merely forgot. She forgot that he was same as she, just more jaded and edged and used to covering it all up. So gingerly, she got up from the bed and moved towards him silently, never stopping until his back was inches from her. With a feather's touch, she let her chin drift down to his rock-like back and her arms gently curl around his waist. She felt his stiffen as she spooned into his back, then eventually relax. For several moments, the two just stood in silence. Spike held his arms out against the window to keep him steady while Buffy held onto him loosely. They were both unaware of the apparent intimacy of the position. All they knew was the small seed of peace and comfort they felt in the half-embrace. Eventually Spike felt Buffy's cheek rub up against the black cloth of his back, soaking it with tears. He turned his head slightly. 

"What's the matter?"

She didn't move. "Remember when you asked if it was better?" she murmured against his back. 

"Yeah?"

"I just finally figured it. It's not."

He nodded and stared back out the window. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

And so they stayed liked that for what seemed like forever, both acknowledging the pain they had tried so hard to disguise. It didn't seem like much, but for a fleeting moment, it was all they had to make it better. If only for a little while. 

****

TBC………………………….


	5. A Big Deal

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Disclaimer: I do not own any the characters of BtVS, I'm just a girl who is high debt with her homework because she prefers to write fanfic instead. 

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Rating: PG-13 for language. 

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Feedback: Of course! Don't forget to check out my other current WIP fics "Haven" and "A Lo-Fi Kind of Love"!

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Author's Note: Yes, your eyes do not deceive you! It's an update! I know I've been MIA for awhile, but hopefully there are still some readers out there, and if so, hope you enjoy the update that has been long overdue. 

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Chapter 5: A Big Deal

After that afternoon in the apartment, Buffy and Spike had reached a silent understanding. Buffy would not bring up Giles and Spike would not treat Buffy with his usual gibing and scathing manner, as if he was afraid that doing otherwise would result in her maniacally reaching for the bottle again. The latter part of arrangement caught Buffy by surprise, but she didn't say anything if it meant a break from his aggressive tirades and rudeness. But after awhile, she grew a little tired of his politeness. It was so . . . un-Spike. She could feel him treating her like glass, and it made her so annoyed that she felt like physically attacking him, smacking him upside the head with a club, just to get the old, horrible Spike out. All this niceness was too suspicious and unnerving. 

Take today, for example. The fourth day after Buffy's outburst, he was still keeping up with the courteous smiles and strained serenity. She could feel the old insults and crude remarks lurking beneath his civil surface, and it kept her on edge. At the breakfast table, they ate in silence, with only the jarring clinking of silverware against dishes audible. Chewing slowly and carefully, Buffy fixed her untrustworthy eyes on Spike. He rarely looked at her, seemingly engrossed in his waffles instead, and when he did glance up, he smiled small and affably. The atmosphere was so tense; she wanted to kill him. Finally, the thickness broke through when they both reached for the last waffle, recoiling back quickly like they had both touched a hot flame. 

Nodding diffidently, he gallantly left the waffle untouched for her. "Go ahead."

"Oh, n-no, that's okay, I'm full and -- "

"So am I. Come now, finish 'em off."

He obviously wasn't full. He had only eaten three waffles and Buffy knew for a fact that his minimum capacity for waffles went up to ten. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes, but she said through forced politeness, "No, really. You have it, I couldn't eat another bite."

Cocking an eyebrow, he murmured in a soft and perfectly gentlemanly tone, "Buffy, I insist. I _want_ you to have it." He made it sound like he was charitable philanthropist, giving her a million dollars. She couldn't take it anymore. 

"Oh for God's sake, just _take_ the goddamn waffle!" she yelled, throwing the waffle wrathfully in his face. He caught it in confusion and stared up at her as she threw back the chair in disgust. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded, and she rejoiced; she heard some of that old crabby Spike in his voice yet. 

"What the hell is wrong with _you_?" she launched back, glaring at him. "All this 'oh Buffy, _do_ take the last waffle, I _insist_." She said it in an affected, Buckingham palace accent that was obviously a bad attempt to mimic his voice. He frowned with repugnance.

"Who the fuck are you talking like?"

"Like _you_, Sir Walter Raleigh. Like you with all your stupid politeness and stupid gentlemanly smiles and stupid non-evil fakeness."

He sat back in his chair with an amazed sneer. "Well this is a new one. You hate me for trying to be _nice_."

"Emphasis on 'trying'. We both know that you are far from _nice_, Spike, so there's no use pretending."

"I'm not nice?" he asked evenly with his mystified expression maintained. His confusion was driving her crazy. 

"No!" she wailed, throwing her hands up in the air. "You are _not_ nice. You are evil, you are a pig, you are a masochist, and you're rude. You are a world of adjectives used by feminists when describing men, but you have never been and never will be_ NICE!"_

He didn't say a word. He just sat quietly with his arms folded, looking at her in a strange, still way. Chuckling under his breath, he said, "It's true."

If his niceness didn't shock her enough, this admission did. Eyes-wide, off-guard, she said, "What?"

"You're right. I'm not nice. And I do a crap job at trying to _be_ nice. But the point is, I tried."

"But why?" she asked imploringly. She knew the answer of course. He knew she was hurting, and so it made sense to tone down his behavior that he knew for a fact could hurt her. She got this logically. But there was something in her that didn't like the idea of this. She didn't like Spike going out of his way for her, she never did. It implied that he cared for her somehow, in his own twisted way. Of course that made him simply compassionate, but she was worried that beneath it all, it was something more, and that was most unsettling of all. Why and where she got this idea was unknown to her. But it tugged her anxiously nonetheless. "Why try and be nice if it comes so hard?"

He shrugged. "Well I tried and did it . . . for _you_, I guess."

It was a simple and complex and answer at the same time. While it clearly referred her pain and his fear that being himself would only exacerbate that pain (which he was right, it would), it also meant that he actually cared. Why did he have to do _anything_ "for her"? And who was he to care about doing anything for her? She asked him. 

"Why do you care about doing anything for me?"

He slumped in his chair as if her questions were boring and ridiculous and tiring. "I get it Buffy. _Nice_ doesn't suit me. I'll try again. It's back to being masochist evil pig Spike for me, I promise. Let's just not make a big deal of it -- "

"But it _is_ a big deal," she interrupted brusquely, and then wished she hadn't. Because she suddenly realized it probably wasn't a big deal to him, after all. There were probably no hidden subtexts in what he did and said; she was just paranoid and imagining things. She didn't even know what she was imagining, but she knew she had imagined them since that semi-embrace they had that day. Even though she wouldn't admit it to herself. Now that she had said it, he probably thought it was a big deal, which was thing she didn't want in the first place. 

Almost predictably, he sat on the edge of the chair and widened his eyes. "I don't understand. _What's_ a big deal?"

Shrinking, she suddenly shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing's a big deal."

"But you just _said -- _"

"Look just forget about it, will you, Spike?" she demanded sharply. Taken aback, he shrugged dumbly. 

"You're crazy," he finally said. "You know that? You're a real loony bird. First you get on me for being a pig. Then when I'm not, you scream and throw tantrums just the same. And then you go around contradicting yourself all in the same breath. You're a bloody nutter."

"Fine. I'm a nutter."

"That's what you are. Bloody fucking psycho."

She was too tired to argue. "Psycho," she echoed, dragging her waitress apron out of the closet. She was glad to leave for the comfort of the diner, where she did have to think and analyze people's actions and words. Living with Spike had become a tricky game of war. It took careful thought and planning, and she was never sure of what to make of her enemy. Even with fake politeness and agreements and understanding, it was like walking in a land mine field. Everything would be okay and then out of nowhere, _BAM_, back to warfare and battle. The diner was her hospice from home. 

"Where are you going?" he asked gruffly as she began to drift out the door without a word. 

"Where do you think I'm going? To the diner. Where else would I be going at 10 am?"

"I thought you worked the night shifts. That and you like to say one thing and do another. Or more like, say one thing and then _say _another. Like something's a big deal and then it suddenly isn't."

"Oh shut up, Spike."

"'You're a _pig_, Spike'," he chanted in a falsetto accent, this time mimicking her, though doing a much better job than she did with him. "'Stupid non-evil fakeness!'"

She punctuated his imitation of her by slamming the door. 

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She worked well into the evening, despite Gina's clucks of concern and when she finished her double shift it was a purplish dark hood of night outside. Oblivious to the night, she carelessly walked through the shifty-looking back alleyways. She was never really scared of the back ways, not when she had grown up spending nights in musty graveyards. And she had yet to encounter a shifty-looking character in the shifty-looking back alleyways, so she wasn't worried. 

Which is why the vampire that jumped out at her suddenly caught her more off-guard than they usually did. She recovered quickly, though, but not quickly enough to stop it from smashing her to the concrete wall. 

"Little girls shouldn't walk alone at night," the vampire snarled, jutting his fangs in her face. Grimacing with pain, she pushed the vamp off her quickly. Jumping up, she punched him powerfully so that he lost his footing. 

"I'm _not_ a little girl," she growled back before pushing him back towards the wall. "I'm a sla --"

She suddenly paused. She couldn't bring herself to say it. All this time, she had been running away from it. She _had been_ a slayer. She _had been_. She had to adjust that world, the Sunnydale world, to the past tense.

So who was she, standing here in a back alleyway, fending herself from a vampire?

She grew still as she pondered this and it gave the vampire time to kick her feet out from under her. Slamming to the ground, the breath flew from her and she found herself trapped under the vampire, who was quickly lowering his voracious mouth to her neck. 

"What were you saying? You're a Slavic? A slave? Well, honey, you ain't gonna be that no more, not where I'm sending you."

She could have easily stopped him. She could have grabbed the nearby piece of wood she saw lying next to the dumpster or simply kicked him off and dusted him without even breaking into a sweat. But again, she felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue overcome her. She was tired and broken. She didn't dust vampires anymore because she wasn't the slayer anymore. She _was_ just a little girl, alone in a big city with no friends, no family and certainly no love. No love at all. She had made sure of that. She made sure that was good and dead and sent to hell. 

Lying pinned underneath a random vampire, she wanted to give up. The small seed of carelessness bloomed into a total forfeit of the desire to fight back. It wasn't that she was too depressed and moody to go on. She was simply too exhausted. So her eyes fluttered closed until she could nearly feel a sliver of a fang pierce her thin skin. An enormous fear was replaced by intense relief and then -----

She felt the vampire's weight lifted off her torso and her eyes flew open. Flying up onto her elbows, she veered her head to view a furious Spike, pummeling the vampire until it was sagging on the wall. 

"And _you'll_ just be hearty contents for a dust pan with where _I'm_ sending you," Spike growled, whipping a stake out of his jacket quickly before the vampire could whisk away. Easily, he buried it in the vampire's chest and it exploded into a million fluttering pieces of chalky gray. Silent, Spike wiped his hands free of the dust and stared at the ground, before glancing back at Buffy, who lay in amazement on the pavement. Narrowing his eyes at her, he snapped, "You _nutter_."

She was still shaking, unable to speak. The realization that she had nearly just given her life to a vampire only moments ago took hold of her and rendered her shocked and speechless. "T-thank y-you for saving my life," she began murmuring as she stumbled clumsily to her feet.

"Don't give me this 'thank you' shit! What the _hell_ were you doing?!"

"I-I was just walking home -- "

"And decided to get let a vamp take a good chunk out of you on the way home?! Jesus, Buffy! What do I have to do, watch over you 24 hours a day?!"

Widening her eyes, she grew hot with contempt. "Watch over me?! What do you mean 'watch over me'?!"

"Come on, Buffy. Going around, trying to drown yourself in a liquor bottle. Getting into scrapes with vampires without doing very much to fight back."

"How do you know I wasn't trying to fight back?" she retorted sharply. 

"I _saw _it! You were just lying there like a sack of potatoes, waiting for him to make the big bite! You're the _slayer_, for Chrissakes!"

"_Was_ the slayer," she snapped automatically, without even thinking. Immediately when she said it, Spike's face grew hard and cold with understanding. 

"Oh. I get it. Trying to shirk out of old responsibilities, huh? Well here's a tip. There are other ways besides to do it besides _committing suicide_!!"

"I wasn't -- "

"Really?!" Spike raged. "So what was that?! Some passive-aggressive exercise you've picked up?! A Gandhi imitation, what?!"

Buffy tried to sweep past him towards the sidewalk. "You don't understand --"

He grabbed her forcefully by the wrist and whirled her back around so powerfully that she cried out in pain. "No, _you_ don't understand." He leveled a serious, burning glare at her. "You can't run away from this."

A little shakily, she shrunk in the intensity of his glance. "Run away from what?"

"From being the slayer. You'll always be it, no matter what you do."

She tried to wrench away from him. "I don't have to listen to this -- "

"Yes, you bloody well do! Now listen." He tugged at her arm and advanced on her so quickly that she backed up onto the wall, inches away from him. Staring up into his tumultuous azure eyes, she felt herself grow weak, so she tried to look away, but he merely grabbed her face and turned it back to his. "You can't go on like this, Buffy. You can't keep running away."

She shook her head and tried to stare past him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's what I'm talking about. This, the denial, and the lies . . . it's sick. You can't keep doing it to yourself. You're the slayer. Nothing will ever change that. Accept it."

She glared back at him violently. "Don't tell me what to do," she said coldly, like an indifferent stranger, and it filled him with even more anger. 

Crashing his hands to the brick on either side of her head, he screamed into her face, "Don't you get it, Buffy?! You're ruining your life! You're ruining others! And you want to know why?! Because you're the slayer! You have a responsibility to the world to _save it!_ We _NEED_ you! Just because some fucking vampire boyfriend screwed you over, it doesn't make it any different! It doesn't change it!"

As enraged as he, she pushed him off so that he slammed into the opposite wall. She was immediately upon him, punching him hard in the face repeatedly. "I never wanted to be needed!" she screamed while her fists flailed on his face out of desperate frustration. "You don't understand! I don't _want_ to be the slayer! All the ugliness, all the pain, I don't _need _it anymore!"

It was the first time she had really hit him and Spike felt the searing pain soar through his whole body. She was trying to communicate exactly what she felt onto his helpless form. But he did nothing to stop it.

"You don't get it!' she continued shrieking through uncontrollable sobs while the punches rained down. "You don't get how much I don't want to be here! How much I don't know what to do! You don't understand how much it kills me to live in this world every single day and not wish I was dead or gone or in the past! You don't even know!"

Suddenly, he brought his hands up so that they snapped Buffy's arms away from his face. He at first caught her small wrists in his hands, then threw them down, grabbing her head instead. Without even a thought in his mind, he rammed his lips to hers and something entirely different began. 

He had done it mostly to shut her up and stop the blows and smother her screams. He didn't want to hear her irrational shrieks because they too closely resembled his own feelings. He had also done it to comfort her, to ease her into tranquility, but he had only meant to hug her so she could bury her cries into his chest. But his aim had been a little wrong. He hadn't meant to kiss her. If he knew how it would feel, he wouldn't have done it. 

It was horrible, even more painful than her vicious punches. But it was the beautiful kind of horrible, the kind that beat down on the chest and made the lungs cry for air and release. It consumed them until they both knew that they had no idea where they were on the planet; they were only _here_ and there were only two of them. Their tongues grappled with each other brutally, almost violently, and they were suddenly clinging to each other so tightly that Buffy could have broken Spike's rib bones and he wouldn't have noticed. They couldn't notice or feel anything past a heady fire blazing through the both of them. 

Crashing to the wall again, Buffy melted into Spike's hold, almost whimpering as his soft lips raked ruthlessly against hers. All this time, she didn't think they would be this soft. 

And suddenly, Spike pulled away. Blankly, he stared at Buffy, who was a mirror reflection of pale white shock. Shaking like a leaf and looking lost, he backed away from her. 

"Drusilla," he whispered, and looked again at Buffy with open-mouthed wonder. "Drusilla," he repeated before turning around and running out of the alleyway, leaving Buffy alone and shivering. 

She touched her lips in awe, red and swollen as she stared after his fast departing shadow. All this time, she knew. She just knew. She hadn't been paranoid, after all. 

It had been a big deal. 

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TBC……………….


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